


Brace for the Setting of the Sun

by AngelQueen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Canon Compliant, Drabble Sequence, Drabbles, I mean there's not a lot of detail for this point in history so it's possible a lot of this happened, Implied/Referenced Torture, Multi, Rhaelle is So Done with her Family's Bullshit, Targaryens being idiots, To An Extent, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-25 00:55:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20367967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelQueen/pseuds/AngelQueen
Summary: The life of Rhaelle Targaryen told in drabbles.





	Brace for the Setting of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This story has long been a labor of love for me. I cannot even begin to remember when I started it, it's been so long. But now it's finished, and I hope you-all enjoy it.

Rhaelle Targaryen is eight years old when she leaves King’s Landing for Storm’s End.

She rides pillion behind Ser Duncan, almost lost in the folds of his white cloak. She peeks around him, violet eyes too big for her tiny face.

The smallfolk stand in silence, throwing flowers in the horse’s path as it passes them by. One flower flies toward the girl and she catches it in a small hand. She does not let go.

The procession winds its way out of the gates.

Rhaelle Targaryen is eight years old when she leaves King’s Landing.

She does not return.

* * *

Betha Blackwood is ten-and-nine when she marries her prince. She dreams of the adventures they shall seek, with Ser Duncan for company.

Betha is two-and-twenty when she becomes a mother. She stares at her son, named for her husband’s mentor, and wonders what mark he shall make on the world.

Betha is eight-and-thirty when her youngest child is taken from her. She stands alone, watches her babe be carried away by that greatest of knights. Her husband and firstborn stand behind her, and she smells the stench of guilt upon them.

She cannot bear the sight of either of them.

* * *

Rhaelle lives in fear her first year at Storm’s End. Though no one is unkind to her, she can feel the harsh gazes of her hosts. She isn’t wanted, considered a poor trade for Melissa Baratheon being Duncan’s wife.

When word comes of Jaehaerys and Shaera’s elopement, Rhaelle shivers in terror. She sees Lord Lyonel’s angry sneer, Ormund’s tightlipped disapproval, and wonders if she will be blamed for this too.

It is Lady Melia who steps in. She lays a hand on Rhaelle’s shoulder and says, “Calm down, child. ‘Tis not your fault yours is a family of oath breakers.”

* * *

Slowly, Rhaelle begins to settle into life at Storm’s End. She is Lord Lyonel’s cupbearer and Lady Melia’s companion, but that means little outside of formal feasts before the bannermen. Outside of that and her lessons with Maester Harlan, her time is her own.

After Jaehaerys and Shaera’s foolishness, that changes. Lord Lyonel takes an interest in her. He is pleased with the Maester’s reports of her studies, but encourages her to spend more time with Lady Melia’s wards. “You will be their lady one day, girl,” he says gruffly. “Know them; let them know you. Show them no fear.”

* * *

Storm’s End is home to more than just the Baratheon family. The castle also hosts many children of the Stormlands’ noble families. When Rhaelle first came to the castle, the gulf between her and them was an enormous one. She feared being blamed for her family’s sins, they feared Lord Lyonel’s wrath should they show kindness to the sister of the man who dishonored the man’s beloved daughter.

When Lord Lyonel begins to show her some attention, everyone’s behavior begins to change. Many of the wards begin to reach out to her, and she does not back away in fear.

* * *

Rhaelle becomes acquainted with all of the Storm Wards, as they like to call themselves, but there are ones that she becomes close to. Lorena Fell, Alyssa Swann, and Ellyn Rogers become her favorites. Lorena and Ellyn are nearly women grown and betrothed, but Alyssa is but a year Rhaelle’s senior. Despite the age differences, a true friendship grows between them.

When the ladies sit in the sewing circle, or when they dash about the castle assisting in the preparation for a feast, Rhaelle finally feels free to laugh. The clouds caused by her circumstances begin to clear at last.

* * *

Her parents wish for her to marry in the Great Sept of Baelor. Rhaelle wishes for anything but that. To make such a large fuss would only serve to reopen old wounds and remind everyone, yet again, that this marriage is only happening because Duncan chose his own desires over the duty that is laid before all men born of noble blood.

Lord Lyonel’s death gives everyone the excuse they need to refuse such plans, horrible as it sounds. Rhaelle and Ormund marry in the Sept of Storm’s End, a small ceremony done out of respect for the family’s mourning.

* * *

Her life is not a harsh one. Truly, Rhaelle’s is a better life than many women of her station. Her husband does not hold her responsible for the humiliations heaped upon his family by hers. He does not beat her, or treat her like a drudge. 

No, Ormund is everything a lord should be to his lady. When his mistress tries to dominate her, tries to make her a puppet, he throws her from the castle before Rhaelle can even think to demand it.

Ormund does not love her. Rhaelle does not love him. They will make this work nonetheless.

* * *

Their first visit to King’s Landing after their marriage is tense. It is the first time Rhaelle has returned to the capital since she was taken to Storm’s End. 

Everyone smiles, offers their congratulations on their marriage, acts like it isn’t a shoddy replacement for the one that didn’t happen. Her parents beam at her, hug her tightly, scold her jokingly for her long absence. The court obediently laughs.

Rhaelle remembers loving the Red Keep as a girl. Now she looks at it, looks at the falsities that drip from its walls, and wants nothing more than to go home.

* * *

Rhaelle Targaryen hasn’t returned to the Red Keep.

Rhaelle is a bright, happy girl who races through the corridors, whose smile lightens the mood of even the dourest Septas. Rhaelle dances about her chamber in her nightdress when Egg comes to tell her a story for bedtime.

This woman who enters the Red Keep is neither bright nor happy, and certainly would not deign to dance. Her violet eyes are colder than winter, at odds with the vibrant black on gold colors that she wears like armor.

This is not Rhaelle Targaryen. This is Lady Baratheon. 

Betha wants to scream.

* * *

Duncan beams when he sees her. He introduces her to his wife, expecting her to be thrilled to meet her goodsister, and not disgusted to meet the woman responsible for the deaths of thousands.

She refuses to smile at either of them.

Jaehaerys and Shaera are also open and cheerful. They lay their young son in her arms. Rhaelle looks down at the monstrosity, this incestuous beast, and thinks he should be thrown into the sea.

She knows he won’t be. They are convinced of the brat’s perfection.

Daeron alone greets her solemnly, acknowledging that nothing is as it was.

* * *

She and Ormund do not stay long in King’s Landing. Though her family protests, Rhaelle has the perfect excuse – she is with child, and it is tradition that the heirs of Storm’s End should be born within the Stormlands. 

Her mother offers to accompany her, to be there to help her through the delivery, but Rhaelle refuses, and cannot resist saying that perhaps Jenny and Shaera need her more. 

Jenny has born no children since marrying Duncan, but Shaera is determined to breed another abomination.

It is horrible, but small part of her relishes the hurt on her mother’s face.

* * *

Her pregnancy goes smoothly, so no one expects the trauma of its conclusion. Rhaelle spends the months preparing for the babe’s coming, overseeing the assembly of the nursery, preparing her own chambers and even planning the feast that will follow the birth. Everyone expects everything to happen easily.

No one expects the gush of blood from between her legs late one night during a storm. No one expects Rhaelle’s screams as her belly twists and contracts as she tries to push the babe from her body. 

No one expects that their new Maester would have to cut the babe out.

* * *

For a time, Rhaelle lives in darkness. There are spots of awareness – Lady Melia peering down at her fearfully, Ormund sitting next to her, clutching her hand in his own – but mostly, there is just blackness. 

She does dream, though. Things that make no sense. Sand blowing in a desert wind. A stag charging across a river. An island consumed by the sea. A cackling jackal licking blackened corpses. A dragon, lost and alone in a sea of grass. A wolf, slumped in the snow, savaged and torn. Blood soaking the ground, blood everywhere.

And ice, creeping forward slowly, inexorably.

* * *

When at last she wakes, Rhaelle’s first thought is that her husband looks terrible. His beard is unkempt, his eyes bloodshot. He stares back at her, gaping like a fish, as though he has never seen her before. His subsequent bellows for the Maester hurt her ears, but she does not mind overly much. 

Soon enough, she learns of what happened, and that she will never have another child. In time, she will grieve that news, but in the moments after the Maester ceases to speak, she cares to only hear one further piece of information:

“Where is my baby?”

* * *

Rhaelle will never forget the first time she holds her son. Her arms are weak, and Ormund helps her hold him. His features do not favor anyone she knows. Oh, his eyes are blue, Argella Durrandon’s gift, but that is his only defining feature.

“He has no name,” Ormund says. His expression is a bit sheepish. “It didn’t seem right, naming him without your input.”

Rhaelle looks down again at the babe. She wants him to have his own name, not anyone else’s. He is no Lyonel or Orys, and certainly no Aegon or Duncan. 

“Steffon,” she says. “Steffon Baratheon.”

* * *

Word comes some weeks later of Shaera being delivered of a girl. _Rhaella_, her sister writes, _for you, my sweet sister_.

They send appropriate gifts of congratulations, but Rhaelle sees no honor in being the infant’s namesake. “Oh yes,” she tells Ormund derisively, “I am so pleased to have the child that my brother fucked into my sister’s belly named for me. _So pleased_.”

Ormund says, “It is the way things are now.” Rhaelle notes that he doesn’t disagree with her. “And she’ll likely be Queen one day.”

“Surely not. Surely Father will not condone such a disgusting marriage _again_!”

* * *

_Daeron has broken his betrothal to Olenna._

Betha stares at the words. She hates that she must write of another forsworn betrothal to her youngest. She knows what Rhaelle will think.

Another Targaryen too selfish to do their duty. Another boy acting without thought of the consequences. Another example of her parents’ favoritism and weakness. 

They had given way to Duncan, to Jaehaerys and Shaera, and now to Daeron, but oh no, Rhaelle _must_ marry Ormund, must clean up her brother’s mess.

“It’s not that simple,” Betha longs to shout, but she knows that from Rhaelle’s perspective, it certainly is.

* * *

The realm stirs with discontent. The nobles are displeased with her father’s reforms, with the willful disobedience of her siblings, and with the insults they have heaped upon many of the realm’s leading houses.

Ormund is summoned more and more often to King’s Landing, to provide counsel as the King’s goodson. Rhaella does not accompany him, remaining at home to run the keep, look after her son and ailing goodmother, and keep the Storm Lords from setting their lands ablaze with their many squabbles.

She is no fool. Rebellion is coming, and there is no way to stop it now.

* * *

The rebellion, once it starts, does not last long. The insurgents overestimated the number of people willing to actually stand against the King. While many might grumble and snarl over the King’s decisions, very few are bothered enough to actually take up arms and commit themselves to treason. 

Rhaelle keeps Storm’s End on alert throughout the fighting, however. While Ormund summoned many of his bannermen to fight, he was not foolish enough to leave his castle, wife, and heir undefended. It is ultimately that security that saves both Rhaelle’s life and that of Steffon’s, when The Rat comes to call.

* * *

It happens when Rhaelle is alone with her son. After the day’s end, she dismisses the nurse and septa from the nursery, and settles on the floor to play with Steffon and his toys. Her son grins at her, a gap visible from a recently lost tooth, as he slams his wooden stag down on a battered toy dragon. 

The intruder is surprisingly quiet, but Rhaelle has lived in this castle for most of her life, and she knows its sounds. A man scrabbling at the stonework and pulling himself through the window is more than out of the ordinary.

* * *

He grins at her, his beady eyes gleaming through the holes in his rat mask. “Another pretty Targaryen,” he says, delighted. “Though you’re dark as night. She was bright as the sun.”

Rhaelle has already gotten to her feet, keeping herself between the invader and her son. She growls at his words, knowing very well of whom he speaks. None of her family have forgotten what Princess Aelora suffered.

His teeth gleam – a strange sight for a supposed commoner – and he moves closer to her. “Will you sing as prettily as she did, Your Highness?”

Rhaelle snarls. “I don’t sing.”

* * *

The Rat laughs. “I think you will, Princess. You’ll sing or I’ll gut your little fawn.”

Then his hands are on her, rough and insistent. He thinks her easy prey, frozen by fear for Steffon, fear of what he wants from her. Terrified, just as Aelora was.

Rhaelle isn’t Aelora, though. Rhaelle is not lost amid guilt and madness. Rhaelle has never assumed herself safe, particularly when there is a rebellion afoot. 

Most of all, Rhaelle is not unarmed. 

The Rat tears at her skirts, eager to get to what lies beneath. Rhaelle goes for the knife in her bodice.

* * *

Ser Willem Tudbury, the Master-of-Arms of Storm’s End, is among those to first hear the screams. He and his companions, two guards he trained himself, react as they are meant to, pulling their swords.

“The nursery,” Tom says. “Her ladyship’s there with the young lord.”

“Unguarded?” Willem demands as they tear up the stairs toward the nursery. The other guard, called Chip for his chipped front tooth, says something, but Willem doesn’t bother listening.

Something is wrong. Suddenly, Lady Rhaelle’s insistence on constant guards makes sense, though why she’d not be guarded now makes no sense at all.

_Fucking hells._

* * *

The guards are dead, Willem sees as they reach the nursery. The screams have not abated, and are loud through the door.

The room is awash with blood, he sees as he enters. There’s a man on the floor, rolling and howling as he clutches at his bleeding groin – the source of the screams.

There are two more men, crowding Lady Rhaelle toward the window, trying to push her out of it. One of them has Steffon, who yowls protest. The man yelps when the young lord bites the hand that covers his mouth.

Willem and his companions don’t hesitate.

* * *

The Rat lives, thanks to the efforts of Maester Cressen. Ravens are dispatched to King’s Landing and to surrounding keeps, warning of possible similar attempts to take noble or royal hostages. 

Once The Rat is deemed to be recovering, there is some question of what to do with him. Cressen is of the mind to send him to King’s Landing, where there are interrogators who can loosen his tongue. Ser Willem hesitates to spare the men needed to escort him, but agrees.

Rhaelle does not. “I will deal with him,” she says.

The Rat sneers. “Do your worst, dragon bitch.”

* * *

The Rat screams beneath Rhaelle’s hands. She has no instruction in interrogation, but she learns fast.

“Who sent you? Why did you come?”

The blood seeps from his wounds, and he gasps from the pain. Nonetheless, he still leers at her. “W-wanted another dragon to sing. S-she sang so prettily.”

She rips off a fingernail for the impertinence. He howls.

“Who sent you?”

She’s inflicted enough wounds that he’s losing the desire to play with her. He tries to spit in her face. Ser Willem is quick, though, and punches two teeth out.

“Who sent you?”

In time, he talks.

* * *

Word arrives within weeks of the rebels’ defeat. Rhaelle’s household celebrates well into the night, believing that surely their lord will come home now. 

Word follows with further detail. The loyalists have won, but not without cost. 

_Daeron is dead,_ her mother writes. _Please, my daughter. Come home._

Rhaelle might once have quibbled over the use of the word ‘home’ to describe King’s Landing. Now, she cares nothing for those old resentments.

Daeron is dead.

_Daeron_ is dead.

Daeron is _dead_.

Rhaelle weeps in silence as her handmaidens swarm about her chambers, seeing to the packing.

A funeral awaits her.

* * *

Aunt Rhaelle has never been warm to anyone. Rhaella has always watched the aunt her parents named her for. She sees the ice in her eyes as she stares at her parents, at Grandfather.

Only once is that different. When they betroth Rhaella to Aerys, the ice melts before the fire. Rhaella overhears her rage.

“You permit this to happen _again_? Are you mad?”

Someone speaks, then Rhaelle says, “You are a fool. A fool, and a coward. They call you the Unlikely, but you’re really just another Unworthy. Rot in the Seven Hells with all you have wrought, _Father_.”

* * *

Ormund knows better than to try to convince her to remain. When Rhaelle determines her course, nothing will persuade her otherwise.

Duncan is not so wise. “We cannot afford the appearance of discord within the family,” he says.

She sneers, “Since when have you ever cared for such things?”

He does not flinch, likely accustomed to such barbs. “It’s for the best, Rhaelle; you’ll see. The prophecy –”

Rhaelle doesn’t want to hear his voice, his excuses, his platitudes, any of it, anymore. She grabs the nearest thing to her – a hideously ugly vase – and chucks it at his head.

* * *

Betha watches Rhaelle leave, an escort of Baratheon riders accompanying her. She had not tried to persuade her to stay. 

_“She is most wroth, Mother,” Duncan said. He held ice wrapped in cloth to his head. “Blood of the dragon, that one.”_

Betha had visited her one last time.

_“I hate them all,” Rhaelle hissed, her eyes bright with fury. “Selfish, ungrateful…” She shook her head. “I hope they live to see the disaster they are herding this family toward. I hope they see everything they love turn to ash.”_

Her family is nothing now. Betha closes her eyes, defeated.

* * *

The raven arrives a week after Rhaelle returns to Storm’s End. 

_Queen Betha is dead_, writes Ormund. _I assumed you will not return, and so made your excuses to the King._

Rhaelle remembers being plucked from her mother’s arms and put on a horse behind Ser Duncan. She remembers seething over her mother’s praise of Jenny’s singing, of Shaera’s beauty. She remembers letters full of words like _‘we must make do’_ and _‘your father says there’s nothing for it’_. She remembers all of the sharp words she’d flung, meant to draw blood, meant to _hurt_.

Now she only feels empty.

* * *

Rhaelle refuses to step foot in King’s Landing again. She does not go for her mother’s funeral, for the betrothal celebrations of Aerys and Rhaella’s marriage, any of it. Ormund and Steffon remain there, and though she longs dearly for her son’s presence, she will not avail herself of his company while he is within the walls of the city.

When a raven comes telling of Rhaella’s pregnancy, she sends no reply. Ormund will take care of it. 

When a raven comes bearing her father’s command for all Targaryens to gather at Summerhall, she finally responds.

_I am a Baratheon._

* * *

Though her husband and son are often absent, Rhaelle is not lonely. Just as Lady Melia had done in her day, Rhaelle takes in the daughters of the Stormlords as her wards and handmaidens. Through them, she finds meaningful occupation beyond the running of Storm’s End.

There is Jeyne Caron, who creates works of such beauty with her needle. There is Sara Kennington and Aemma Gower, whose mischief brings naught but laughter. There is Cassana Estermont, the daughter of Rhaelle’s friend Alyssa Swann, who is both prickly and practical, and an excellent manager of a household.

These are her girls.

* * *

Steffon hears the whispers about his mother. They claim she is jealous of her siblings’, of the greatness that Prince Jaehaerys will bring about when his time comes to sit the Iron Throne, of Prince Duncan and Lady Jenny’s love for one another.

He confides in his father, who says, “You know why we married, Steffon. Her hand was the recompense for Duncan dishonoring your aunt.” His father’s eyes are hard. “No matter what is said, your mother did what was required of her, which is more than can be said of any of her siblings. Or even her father.”

* * *

Ormund hears the whispers as much as his son does. He lays the truth out to Steffon, that Rhaelle is by far the best of the King’s children, the one who soothed the realm’s wounds, instead of inflicting them. 

He isn’t a fool. These whispers must have a source; Ormund knows how a court works. It takes only a few words breathed into a few ears, a few coins slipped into a few palms, and the origins of the whispers are sought.

When he learns that it is Jenny’s witch, Ormund wants nothing more than to take both women’s heads.

* * *

Ormund’s eyes are cold as he explains. Jenny’s friend has been up to mischief, spreading her simple tales. This time she has poked at Rhaelle and subsequently provoked her husband’s ire.

_It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg._

Egg sighs. “We will soon gather at Summerhall. I will suggest Jenny send her friend home.”

“Is that to be all, Your Grace?”

He nods tiredly. “I doubt she meant any harm, goodson.”

_You are a fool. A fool, and a coward._

Aemon and Rhaelle are wrong. Surely they are. He will, he _must_, prove it. At Summerhall.

* * *

Ormund and Steffon travel with the royal party to Summerhall, but do not stop there, even when the King invites them to witness the “momentous occasion”. Ormund refuses, stating that they have not been home in some time and have pressing matters waiting for them.

It’s not a lie, but even if it were, Ormund cannot stomach watching Prince Duncan fuss over the flame-haired slut he dishonored Ormund’s sister for. Not to mention he keeps restraining himself from crushing the head of the smug woodswitch with his own hands.

No, they will not stay. They will go home. Rhaelle awaits.

* * *

Rhaelle’s heart pounds as the gates open to permit the entrance of the approaching retinue. Three years. For three years, she has had naught but letters from her husband and son. 

Her eyes go first to her son as he rides through the gates. Though he still has the clean-shaven look of a boy, she can see how much he has grown. His gaze meets hers and his lips spread into a wide grin as he vaults off his horse. Steffon rushes forward and sweeps her into his arms. “Mother!”

Being twirled about knocks a startled laugh from her lips.

* * *

Ormund watches Steffon’s enthusiastic greeting of his mother. He should scold him, remind him that he is nearly a man grown, but when Rhaelle’s laughter fills the air, the words die behind his teeth.

He has often heard her siblings’ laughter – Duncan laughing as he dances with his whore, Jaehaerys and Shaera laughing over Aerys’ antics, even Daeron laughing as he walked the halls with his arm thrown across Jeremy Norridge’s shoulders – but seldom has he heard Rhaelle laugh.

Seldom has Rhaelle had much to laugh about.

Steffon lightens his mother’s heart, and her laughter is music to Ormund’s ears.

* * *

“To Lord Baratheon, welcome home!” shouts one lord, raising his tankard in salute. Enthusiastic cheers erupt throughout the hall.

Cassana Estermont laughs and does the same. She’s not seen Storm’s End so rowdy before. Lady Baratheon keeps a quiet household when her husband and son are away in King’s Landing. It’s enlightening, seeing the various lords reveling in the presence of their sworn lord and his heir.

Her eyes drift to Lady Baratheon, who sits next to her husband. She laughs at something Lord Baratheon says to her, and Cassana rather thinks she’s never seen the lady so happy either.

* * *

Ben Storm stifles a yawn as he walks his patrol route along the castle walls. Not much longer and he’ll be relieved. Then a quick bite to eat – the kitchens always have extra food after a feast, and anyone is free to partake – and then he’ll fall into bed.

Pausing along the ramparts, Ben looks out over the countryside. Beyond the occasional fluttering bird or racing stag, there is –

A glow, a glow along the southwestern horizon. 

He narrows his eyes. The sun does not rise in the west, and it is too early for the dawn.

_What is that?_

* * *

Ormund stares out at the red-gold blaze dancing in the predawn sky. “What is it?”

“I cannot say for certain, my lord,” Cressen says. “However, the nearest settlement in that direction is Summerhall.”

Ormund stills, his eyes not wavering from the distant sight. 

“By the Seven,” Rhaelle snaps, “what madness are they up to _now_?”

He turns toward her, thinking of the King’s interest in dragons, one that had grown in intensity since the death of Queen Betha. Then he remembers the woodswitch, whispering in Aegon’s ear of prophecies, of salt and smoke...

“I will take a scouting party immediately.”

* * *

Rhaelle’s heart pounds as the gates close on the departing retinue. She has made a show of her irritation, but in all truth, she cannot help the tendril of fear worming through her. 

Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly wrong, and her husband and son are going to meet it. Her dreams the night before had been troubled, though she cannot remember what by.

“My lady?”

Rhaelle turns to face her girls. Sara, Cassana, Jeyne, and Aemma all stare at her, their eyes full of worry. “What do we do?” Sara asks.

Rhaelle straightens her spine. “We brace ourselves.”

* * *

What happened is obvious from nearly a league away from Summerhall. The smoke, thick, black, and heavy rises into the afternoon sky, blotting out the sun. 

They locates a camp of survivors not far from the wreckage. At first, Steffon recognizes few of them by sight. Then he sees one familiar face – Maester Gyldayn – walking hurriedly up from the creek, his arms full of wet rags.

Steffon leaps from his horse, following him toward a small makeshift tent. He follows the old man in.

Lying on the ground is his cousin, Rhaella. She holds a sniffling babe to her breast.

* * *

_It is a disaster,_ Ormund writes. _The castle is a blackened skeleton. The fire was so intense we cannot find any bodies._

_The King is dead, along with Prince Duncan. Princess Rhaella says she saw them consumed by the flames. Ser Duncan rescued her from the inferno, and she saw him run back inside. No one has seen him since. I must conclude that he too is lost._

_King Aegon is dead,_ he writes again. _Long may Jaehaerys, the Second of His Name, reign._

He seals the message and hands it to the rider. “Straight to King’s Landing,” he orders.

* * *

Rhaelle stares silently at the list of the dead. Her father, her brother, her aunts, her cousins, most of their respective households. On and on. Then she stares at the miserably short list of the survivors, chief among them Rhaelle’s namesake, and that of her newborn son.

When her mother died, she had felt empty. Rhaelle had spent so long resenting Betha for not fighting for her, for giving away to her other children’s willfulness, to her husband’s pitiful lack of spine. But when she’d died, Rhaelle had felt only emptiness and loss.

Now… she doesn’t know what she feels.

* * *

She attends her siblings’ coronation. Rhaelle watches as Jaehaerys grins at a beaming Shaera while he places a crown on her head, behaving as though this is a moment to celebrate, something to be happy about. As though everyone watching isn’t clad in mourning.

She glances toward Rhaella and Aerys. They too are dressed in red and black, but their expressions are somber, sad. Rhaelle stifles a snort. Aerys, who from Steffon’s descriptions is quite tone-deaf to social niceties and the feelings of others, is behaving with more sensitivity and consideration than his grown parents.

Gods, her siblings are fools.

* * *

Or perhaps they aren’t, Rhaelle reflects later. After the coronation procession returns to the Red Keep, Jaehaerys sits on the Iron Throne. Shaera stands to his right. Both wear solemn expressions.

“We mourn the loss of our family,” Jaehaerys proclaims, “and we commend them to the Seven, praying they will find peace. But we must put our grief aside.”

“The Band of Nine have conquered the Stepstones,” Shaera continues, “and Maelys Blackfyre intends to lead them here. We have kept the Blackfyres out all this time, and we must not falter now.”

“Ormund Baratheon,” Jaehaerys intones. “Come forth.”

Rhaelle freezes.

* * *

Ormund knows what Jaehaerys intends, has had an inkling since before the coronation. He just hadn’t had a chance to discuss it with Rhaelle. 

Forcing himself to look straight ahead, he steps from his wife’s side and kneels before the King and the Throne. “Your Grace,” he says, “what would you have of me?”

It is Shaera who comes forward, a familiar pin in her hand. She clasps it carefully to his tunic.

“Goodbrother,” Jaehaerys says from the throne, behind his wife, “we name you Hand of the King.”

Ormund has never wanted this, but he isn’t surprised by it.

* * *

“I don’t like it,” Rhaelle says in the privacy of their chambers. “But,” she adds as Ormund tries to speak, “It makes sense.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Truly?”

She nods. “The Tyrells and Tullys despise them. Shaera dislikes our Dornish cousins. The Arryns and Lannisters have no one with the skills to fill the role at the moment. Edwyle Stark might be able to do it, but he’ll not leave the North.” She stares at him. “It was Duncan who dishonored your family, and I was the recompense. You’re their goodbrother. If they can’t trust you, who can they trust?”

* * *

Rhaelle doesn’t intend to stay long after Jaehaerys’ declaration of war. Ormund is needed in King’s Landing, and so it falls to Steffon to rally the Stormlords. He needs her help far more.

But that doesn’t stop Shaera from trying to dissuade her. “You’ve hidden away in Storm’s End long enough, sister,” she protests. “It’s time you took your place here. You are the Hand’s wife and the King’s sister. With all we’ve lost, we must stand together!”

Rhaelle raises an eyebrow. “You and Jaehaerys have been planning for this for years, Shaera,” she says. “You don’t need me here.”

* * *

Oh, _why_ is her sister so stubborn?! Frustrated, Shaera watches Rhaelle continue directing her handmaids. She fights the urge to stomp her foot. She is _Queen_! Rhaelle ought to do as she bids her!

She _is_ right, though. Shaera and Jae _have_ been planning for this moment, when they could gather their family together. Oh, they hadn’t _wanted_ Father to die, but they had missed Rhaelle _so much_. She had been caught up in her hatred of Father, in her inability to _understand_ what they are doing. 

But now they _finally_ have the chance to show her, and she still refuses!

* * *

“I could order you to stay, as your Queen.”

The handmaidens freeze. Rhaelle’s scowl is enough to get them moving again. 

“Yes,” she growls, “You are the Queen, and you must do what is best for the kingdoms.”

“I –”

“We’re at _war_, Shaera. Ormund must stay here. That leaves my ten-and-six-year-old son to call the banners.”

“And he can’t without you?”

“Steffon has been at court for years, whereas I have been ‘hiding’ at Storm’s End, as you say. The lords don’t know him.” Rhaelle glares. “You’re not a child anymore, Shaera. You are a Queen. Act like one.”

* * *

The Stormlords are as quarrelsome as ever. They eye Steffon warily, and make a point of needling him. They’re not mutinous – they don’t go _that_ far – but they’re not conventionally obedient either. 

Rhaelle watches, but doesn’t interfere. If Steffon is to rule these lands, these lords one day, he must face them on his own. She confines herself to coordinating with the lords’ households. 

The lords only relent when Steffon snaps after one calls him a soft city boy used to the comforts of a palace. Steffon punching him in the face earns more approval than clever words ever could.

* * *

Part of gathering the banners to Storm’s End also involves feeding them, particularly the lords. The servants are skilled, however, and Rhaelle has full confidence that they can pull off a feast on the eve of the banners’ departure.

Still, she makes sure to keep a close, roving eye on the hall, watching for any fights that might break out between men too deep in their cups. She doesn’t see that, though. Instead, she catches sight of her son speaking with a few of Rhaelle’s wards. She follows his bright gaze, and sees it land on Cassana Estermont.

Rhaelle frowns.

* * *

“Be careful, Steffon,” his mother warns him.

He looks up from the reports she’s laid before him. “Hmm?”

She gives him a stern look. “I don’t know what kind of court your grandfather kept, but I expect all my handmaidens to be treated with the respect owed to them. Don’t give them hope where there might be none.”

Steffon blinks. “What do you mean?”

Her expression doesn’t waver. “Lady Cassana. Her mother is a friend of mine, but the Estermonts are hardly the most influential of houses. It would not be a good match.”

Steffon can only gape at her.

* * *

Ormund leads the troops. Jaehaerys had wanted to lead them, but the man’s health is so fragile he’d not last the sea voyage to get to the Stepstones. Nonetheless, it had taken both Ormund and Shaera to convince him to give Ormund the command. 

Now the Stepstones lie ahead. Ormund can see the enemy, gathering on the beaches as the Greyjoy ships ferrying him and the expedition approach. He can see the rank-in-file soldiers, and their commanders on horseback. One in particular is a large, hulking figure, a black dragon emblazoned on the chest of his red surcoat.

_Maelys Blackfyre._

* * *

_War either makes boys into men, or it kills them._

_War kills men too._

_One boy, now a man, holds his dying father in his arms._

_The father whispers a final word to his son, then falls silent. The boy, now a man, slumps. A moan slides past his lips, and then morphs into a howl of grief. A cry for justice, for vengeance. _

_War presses ever on. Theirs is not the only grief, the only loss. More is still to come, ere war tires of the bloodshed._

From the papers of Maester Horase of the Citadel, dated 260 A.C.

* * *

_Father is dead, Mama. I’m so sorry._

The letter shakes in her hands, crumples as her fingers convulse into fists.

Dead. Her husband is dead. Dead at the hands of Maelys. Her cousin, however distant.

Her family has a history of kinslaying, albeit a distant one. Few like to think of Maegor, after all. But this… 

Her husband is dead. Dead in yet another attempt to seize that gods-forsaken chair in the Red Keep.

Rhaelle screams, curses her ancestors, her siblings, her cousin. She smashes everything she can get her hands on.

Soon, she sits in darkness amid the rubble.

* * *

Ormund’s bones come home in a box, in the care of stone-faced Stormlanders. Rhaelle stands garbed and veiled in widow’s weeds, and leads the procession into the crypts. 

The Crown sends no representative to honor her husband. Only letters come, full of news of how the war is going, of her son’s exploits alongside his cousin and the Lannister heir. 

Her sister even has the audacity to speak of Rhaelle remarrying. 

_Remarry to please yourself this time, sister. Seek out the love you were denied._

The hatred, an old companion she thought settled, rises again in her, hot and bitter.

* * *

In time, Maelys falls on the sword of a bold knight. Rhaelle smiles when the news arrives, a savage joy filling her. Ormund has his justice.

She had not loved Ormund when she married him, nor he her. But time breeds familiarity, and friendship can take root on nearly any soil. From friendship, love can come. Not the grand love the bards sing of, but something softer, quieter.

She had loved Ormund by the end. He was taken from her, but he is avenged.

Now she has their son’s future to look to.

“Hail Steffon Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands!”

* * *

The soldiers come home quickly once the war is done. Steffon does not. He instead goes to King’s Landing. Rhaelle waits in Storm’s End, growing impatient. 

When he does come, there is no smile.

“The King and Queen wished to discuss my marriage,” he tells her. “They want me to marry some Greyjoy girl as repayment for their help in ferrying the armies.”

“What?!” What madness is this?! Great Families almost never marry one another. Rhaelle cannot recall the last time it happened. Even worse, a _Greyjoy_?! 

“The Stormlands will not accept such scum as the wife of their lord.”

* * *

Steffon stares at his mother. Despair has been an emotion he has walked with for so long now, since the death of Father, he does not know how to push past it. “What can I do?” he asks. “They are the King and Queen, and my kinsmen.”

Mother snorts. “Kinsmen, yes, and the King and Queen, but that does not give them the right to decide your future. They rule us, but the Iron Throne has not exerted such control over the Great Houses’ marriages since the days of the Conqueror. Back then, they had dragons to enforce such interference.”

* * *

Rhaelle meets her son’s gaze. “The Iron Throne is _weak_, Steffon,” she says. “They may use the bond of kinship to urge you to bend to their will, but they have not the clout to force you to do anything, not when the family has alienated so many in recent times.” She stiffens suddenly, a disturbing thought coming to her. “You did not agree to their demands, did you?”

Steffon shakes his head. “No. I said I would consider it, but that resettling my people was my first concern, far above matrimony.”

She nods, relieved. “Good, no promises made then.”

* * *

Mother takes his hands in hers. “My son, my marriage to your father was a consolation prize, to soothe the wounds of oaths broken. We in no way loved each other when we married, but we shared one thing – determination to keep the peace.” Her expression sours. “Were we ever thanked for our efforts? For cleaning up the mess my brother made in marrying his whore? No.”

She squeezes his hands tightly. “Marrying to please yourself in the face of all promises made can cause a disaster, but you have made no promises, merely listened to a proposal. _Use that_.”

* * *

“What is it that is best for your people?” Rhaelle asks him. “You say they are your first concern. What kind of marriage would serve them best?”

Steffon does not answer her immediately, which pleases her. He is not impulsive, but actually thinking before he speaks. 

“I need to marry within the Stormlands,” he says eventually. “Father married you, and Grandmother was from the Riverlands.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “House Baratheon needs to reaffirm its ties with its people.”

Pride sweeps through her. Her son is wise. He won’t be caught in the plotting of her siblings.

* * *

Steffon marries within a year. Rhaelle is a witness, and watches with pride as her son weds Cassana Estermont. She remembers telling her son that it would not have been a good match, but she is glad to be proven wrong. 

Jaehaerys and Shaera will be furious over this defiance. Rhaelle doesn’t care. Her son has the friendship of their heir, and while Rhaelle has little liking for Aerys, she isn’t blind to the strong friendship between them. Him coming to Storm’s End to support his cousin’s marriage says much.

The wedding song fills the sept and Rhaelle smiles, content.


End file.
